


Tired

by ComicBooksBro



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst, Castiel Needs a Hug (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Episode: s05e04 The End, Implied Destiel - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Realized i forgot to title the damn thing, Tired Dean Winchester, and they're both idiots so no one gets a hug, its fixed now, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24055069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComicBooksBro/pseuds/ComicBooksBro
Summary: Castiel and Dean Winchester haven’t been themselves in a long time.—Or: I attempt some Endverse angst.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Endverse Castiel & Endverse Dean Winchester, Endverse Castiel/Endverse Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	Tired

Castiel and Dean Winchester haven’t been themselves in a while.

Castiel used to be an angel: powerful, righteous, untouchable.

Dean Winchester was a hunter: saving people was his job, but not at this magnitude. He never wanted to lead an army.

They were friends, fighting together with Sam, Dean’s brother, to stop the apocalypse. They were hopeful, though it had seemed more like pessimism at the time.

They were foolish.

Hope was foolish because nothing ever worked out for the Winchesters. Because no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t stop the end of the world. Sometimes Dean thought things would have worked out better if he just slit his throat. Then again, if he died, what was stopping Michael from jumping his meatsuit? Even so, it wasn’t like he had anything to live for now, unless you count Cas, but he was a whole other can of self-loathing and addiction.

So Dean lived. He killed Croats and did his best to keep his camp alive. But ‘best’ never seemed to be enough. And now here he is: a brother lost to Lucifer, a wasteland for a world, and a broken angel as his only friend. (But was 'friends' really what they were?)

He wished things hadn’t turned out this way. He wished Cas was still innocent to the world, even though he knew the secrets of the universe. Star Wars references still go over his head, but now Cas knows 12 ways to break into the med-cabin and even more ways to hide the drugs he steals. _Not like it matters when he uses the whole bottle._

Not that Dean could talk, half a bottle of whiskey before breakfast wasn’t exactly healthy either. But at least it wasn’t valuable medical supplies. And people tend to notice when said valuable medical supplies go missing, particularly five years into the end of the friggin’ world.

So the Doc had sent Dean to retrieve whatever was left of Cas’ latest score.

Awesome.

Dean walked into Cas’ cabin, forcing away the what-ifs and we-should’ves that follow him everywhere. Wind slammed the door shut behind him as he walked to Cas’ bedroom. He knows Cas will be there. Whether Dean will find him in the middle of an orgie, high as a kite, or both he doesn’t know. To his surprise, the cabin is silent: no strange sounds, no screaming, no quiet crying Cas thinks Dean can’t hear. Dean pulled out his gun before he opened the bedroom door, just in case.

Cas sprawled lazily across the left half of his bed, one arm hanging off the edge, a little orange bottle clutched in his hand. One of his legs is pulled close to his side, _the leg he broke his foot on,_ Dean notices. Cas’ other leg is stretched to the bottom of the bed, socked foot just hanging off the edge. He rests on his stomach, head right below the pillow; his free hand wrapped around a dirty, ripped trench coat.

Dean’s heart squeezed.

Cas only took out his coat when he was having a particularly bad day.

Quietly, Dean snuck around and extracted the bottle of pills from Cas’ hand. He shook it, and a few lone pills rattled around inside. Grimacing, he checked the label, _sleeping pills._ He’s not sure how full the bottle was before Cas ‘found’ it, but he downed at least half the bottle, judging by the weight of it. _Probably another nightmare, bad one by the looks of it._ He should be fine, the pills were weak, for Cas, at least. They won't effect him too much. _He'll be fine._

_Just keep telling yourself that._

Dean should be worried. He was the first few times, but after five years he’s more annoyed by it than anything. _That’s_ the worrying part. _That’s_ what scares Dean. His only friend is swallowing bottles of pills that would kill anyone else and Dean is treating it like just another day. He sat on the edge of Cas' bed and gently placed a hand on Cas’ shoulder.

_How did they fall so far?_

Cas stirred slightly, pulling the trench coat closer to him and rolling towards Dean. His eyes cracked open, squinting in the dull light. The normally striking blue was dulled with sleep and hidden by shadows.

“Dean?” He sounds confused, and understandably so, Dean hasn’t been in here in months. After a while it just got too painful to see Cas, especially after he broke his foot. Someone (Dean never found out who they were, and they’re lucky he didn’t.) had given Cas painkillers, despite his insistence to save them for more injured people. They had been _strong_ painkillers. Cas had liked them. He liked them too much. (If Dean ever finds out who gave Cas those pills, he will _kill_ them.)

“Yeah.” He placed his hands behind him on the mattress and tipped his head up to the ceiling. Something popped. Exhaustion pulls at his limbs, willing him to lay down. Suddenly, Dean realizes how tired he is. He barely got four hours this _week_ , let alone last night, and sleeping through the night hasn’t been possible in years. Sleep has become something of a fantasy, it seems. Real sleep is elusive, extinct even. Sleep where you wake up and don’t need a crisis to drag you out of bed. Sleep where you don’t scream yourself horse from dreams and just wake up more drained every day.

“Tired?” Cas knows. Cas always knows.

“Yeah.” Castiel sits up and turns to face Dean fully. He looks sane, mentally _there_ , not detached and distanced. The blue of his eyes clear and bright. He looks so much like the Cas from five years ago, the one who still thought they could beat the devil. It hurts.

“Stay.”

“I- what?” Dean blushes. He can’t help it, for all the... _stuff_ he and Cas have gotten up to over the years, the offer still shocks him.

“Oh,” Cas’ eyebrows raise, and Dean can’t prove it, but he swears Cas flushes pink too. “That’s not- no funny business, promise.” He smiles and holds out a pinkie. “You need to rest, you’re not a machine, Dean.” There’s a pause, then Cas spoke again, almost shyly: “I can watch over you.” Dean hesitantly linked Castiel’s pinkie with his own.

“Thanks, Cas,” he whispered. Dean slumped sideways onto the mattress, his head hitting the pillow. Cas frowned.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Shoes off.” Dean grumbled and sat up again, leaning over to unlace his shoes. He flexed his feet, feeling the tingling numbness from being on his feet all day leave him.

“Jacket.”

Dean shrugged off the worn leather, dropping it beside his boots.

“Flannel.”

That came off as well, settling atop the jacket.

“Better. Now get under the covers.” Cas gathered the covers in his hands and threw them over Dean. Dean laid down again, much more relaxed now. How long has it been since he slept without his jacket on, since he slept in a bed? Castiel pressed two fingers to Dean’s forehead, a mockery of what he used to be able to do. Dean yawned, and his eyes, bloodshot and worried, slid closed. A moment later he was snoring softly.

Castiel brushed his fingers through Dean’s hair, it was soft, and smelled like gunpowder and blood. Dean needed a shower, so did Castiel, but both of those could wait until tomorrow. Maybe later tonight.

Because, right now? What’s important is Dean. They rarely get moments like this anymore: both of them sober, neither on the verge of death. Castiel has learned to treasure them.

So that’s what he did. He laid down next to Dean and matched his breathing. He ached to take Dean's hand in his, to pull him into a tight embrace and just _be._ He ached to touch Dean, but right now Dean needs sleep- not a clingy, drugged up ex-angel. He sighed, stretching a shaking hand as close to Dean as he could without actually touching him. 

Maybe one day he’d be brave enough to bridge that gap again.


End file.
